blank blank fullness

心與心的距離

The first thing that struck me about this forward, aside from the Chinese characters which I am not accustomed to seeing in my inbox (the sight of them thereby prompting a small part of my brain to think it a junk message that had snuck past the spam sentinel), was the hand-crafted nature of the accompanying images. Immediately Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's timeless children's story Le Petit Prince was called to mind. That story alone warrants an entire post- which I will commit to once I've re-read the book (reading it as a lollygagging high-schooler makes not for rich imprints).

So this forward has a bit of a corny message. But let me put aside the cynical and openly and totally shamelessly express my admiration for the person(s) who

a) took the time to draw and assemble the story, its characters, its characters (心與心的距離)

b) transferred them to a digital format

c) translated the sweet message to English and

d) started the chain, chain, chain, ayn ayn ayn ayn of .....

One day, a professor asked his students 'Why do we SHOUT instead of speak when we are ANGRY?'

All the students thought for a while. One answered 'Because we lost our cool. That's! w! hy we SHOUT.'

Asked the professor again, 'But the person is just right next to you, why can't we talk softly but have to SHOUT?'
Everyone gave their opinions but none was accepted by the professor.

Lastly explained by the professor 'When we are ANGRY, our hearts drift apart. To mask the DISTANCE we felt, we instinctively SHOUT instead of speak so the other party can hear us.'



'But as we SHOUT, we get ANGRIER. And we felt we drift apart further. So we SHOUT even louder...'
'It is the opposite when we are in love. Not only we do not shout, we whisper into each other ears. Why?'

'This is because our hearts are very close, almost never apart. As our love deepen, we reach a state of communication where there is no need for words.'
'We understand each other well enough just by exchanging look,' concluded the professor.
What is really effective about this medium is that it's disarming. The soft watercolors, the simple, innocence-oozing line drawings- they rob you of the adult who is so used to reading Black-on-Grey Times New Roman and return to you the kid who wants a good image with his story.

Sometimes it's necessary to come around to the recognizable, to encounters of the initial, original kind. You know that another person put their eyes and mind together to draw this, to write the characters (ok so maybe the characters are in a handwriting-type font) and that makes it worth just a little bit more. It just feels really authentic.

And there's a wonderfully disjointed feel between the English text and the images. Their correlation is not explicit but there's a definite direction and intended emphasis. With these potent little mile markers, you're allowed to fill in the rest, as any child being read to would. And it sticks. When you can fill in the blanks with your imagination, drop a few minutes to believe in what you're reading (or hearing) and tie it in to what you're seeing, that's a few minutes well lived.

In my story book at least...

(PS. I started to make grammatical edits in the story here and there. You will probably notice where it's needed. In a pledge to authenticity and endearing missteps, I decided best to leave it as is.)

True because. It speaks for itself, indeed. This song's sound : it is strong.

Givin Up (Don Diablo Remix) - One eskimO

I set myself up for it, with the "To be continued". My mistake. In a way. But like Picasso said, “unless your picture goes wrong, it will be no good.” In this case, what went ‘wrong’ wasn’t so much the picture, but its impetus. At a certain level, or rather, throughout all possible levels, these two things are definitively, inextricably bound.

After ending my little jaunt into that cocoon-like restau-space, the days they passed, bringing with them a feeling of obligation to myself and that shell to deliver more, imagine what new direction each letter selected would narrow down for me, push the line into a space of the story's destiny. A lot to do with why I love it so much, that process.

It’s a delicate give and receive of interaction between what I put out and what it becomes of its own volition. Born into the ether it takes itself on a journey, like a proud and proactive puppy takes the leash of its owner into his mouth, the lead shifts alternately between words wed to meaning intended and new spaces of imagination after the fact- my own, that of others. Possibly invisibly, tripping to that destination of home among places of their own. <-[Reflexive Pronoun Use (consider revising)].

Some crazy StorySphere nestled somewhere between the pollution and solution…

I could have, probably should have, stayed in that pinhole of focus while I was there, writing away about a place that exists as only a fragment of what is, essentially, my alternate reality; shared.

The storie tyme will be back. But for now I'm going to go on to another track.

Been thinking on 'reality' lately. Lately being the last 24 hours.

And the way the brain works to perceive and convince. Our minds can, for the most part, determine what does or does not xists - at least when lacking empirical evidence.

Stay sane with some reason, though. Stop walking down that way when you can't feel your legs can’t feel the ground.

Undoubtedly, there's still a lack, gap, of empirical evidence, scientific studies, that grasp the power of this.

Maybe it's not ours to grasp with that sort of hand...

One ‘Mo ‘Gain with this guy: Bon Iver (meaning “good winter” in French when read under the right influence.).

This song has done me in.

The story that it tells: unique. The images it calls to eyes: super clear, takes you to a pique of . Nostalgia: it’s there, my dear. Structure and moral: lines it up for a shot. Sung in the right key: three points from the top!

And it leaves the right amount of room, space to breathe your own life into it, without it being entirely yours.

I think it is exquisite.

Well I met you at the blood bank

We were looking at the bags

Wondering if any of the colors

Matched any of the names we knew on the tags

You said "see look that’s yours!

Stacked on top with your brothers'

See how they resemble one another’s

Even in their plastic little covers"

And I said I know it well

That secret that you know

But don't know how to tell

It fucks with your honor

And it teases your head

But you know that it’s good girl,

‘Cos it’s running you with red…

Then the snow started falling

We were stuck out in your car

You were rubbing both of my hands

Chewin’ on a candy bar

You said "ain’t this just like the present

To be showing up like this"

As the moon waned to crescent

We started to kiss

And I said I know it well

That secret that we know

That we don't know how to tell

I'm in love with your honor

I'm in love with your cheeks

What's that noise up the stairs babe?

It’s that Christmas morning creaks

And I said I know it well
I know it well ...

In the hidden annex of winding, short but uplifting, engulfingly protective streets, cobblestoned neighborhoods, stood a perfectly nondescript batiment. Beyond the dark-papered facade, a hushed room, lighted low. Burgundy velvet banquettes line the periphery, nouveau-baroque tables, glinting at the edges and centered with reflective black Plexiglas stand between the benches and various upholstered chairs. Thin, delicate white plates are neatly lined for tonight's dinner. Glasses of wine sit emptied, catching flickers in crystal, twinkles of tea lights. Table setting. The air, it's lent a light fragrance from the lush vegitation, plants and flowers selected specifically for sensuous qualities, for the muffled huddles offered to separate eventual rolling conversations. Of groups of six, to eight, to twelve. Parties. Have filled this space. A space often rent of emptiness in spirit.

And corners of the room are made to bend, as mirrors are placed to reflect the smiles of unknowns facing angles of soon-to-be acquaintances. That is, when the champagne starts to flow, members' brains allow an engaging show. A drum kit sits. Piano perpendicular to it. Mic stand, awaiting perhaps a jazz band. The manager makes it a point to adjust the volume of style parallel to mood. Of the food. Menu dreamed up of ingredients complementing a most personal touch. Those invited are well aware, tonight's mantra is 'get ready to share.'

To be continued...

On an all-music cruise, there's one huge advantage for those involved: SOUNDING OFF TO LISTEN

Glad to have caught the name of this artist,
dropped by another artist who too,
was once brought up by one lilting,
singing singer full-well in his tune.
Having then stolen much of attention,
kept it busy while playing the sounds,
of a colleague known loud by the many,
now found twisted up, out and re-round.

From the start, here's the new name dropped and now found: